Aw, I'm not depressed anymore. Everything's just super, and I'm very happy. My Psychology class has begun looking not as scary because I finally met my TA (she's been sick), and I am lucky enough to have a lay-back one who's walking us through the steps to writing our lab reports as though we're second graders. And I'm FINE with that! And I'm kind of (call me a nerd) excited about writing these research papers because they're so ORGANIZED, and I'm all about organization. (Because I'm a nerd!) My socks aren't color-coordinated or anything...promise!

In addition to school stress letting up, I've realized how wonderful my friends are. I was telling Angelina about this yesterday since she's one of my main confidantes...but I was having a panic attack last weekend, thinking that I had NO true friends. I know this is the farthest thing from true, but I was so depressed about school that I let that depression filter into every other aspect of my life and make everything else shadowy. But I hung out with so many people I love yesterday, and I've realized how close and wonderful they are. And I've also been hanging out with Jessica a lot lately, and she and I are getting REALLY close. I really like her a lot. She brings out the activist in me...hehe...because she's always asking me to go to anti-war and anti-racism rallies. And we're going to try to start a new group at UC about spirituality.

I wrote a couple weird things two nights ago. I wasn't even in one of my weird, "I'm a spiritual poet" moods. Actually, if anything I was in a rather...um...RANDY mood because I'd just watched two hours of Rose McGowan learning to unleash her power as a witch (Charmed...mmm, why have I not watched this show until now!). I went to bed early but couldn't sleep because I had to write. I'm going to throw the products of my "having to write" in here so they don't just stay in my old notebook and get lost forever. (I wrote them in a notebook that has stuff from 8th grade in it!) The writings aren't fit to be in my poetry section (because they're personal and not disguised by abstract stuff, like most of my poetry...thus I'm kind of afraid to share them on the world-wide web, but I'll do it anyway) and too raw and not revised enough to be classified as one of my writings really, but they are journal-ish. And since they're not interpret-them-for-yourself poems, I'm allowed to talk about what they mean! Yay! The first is a letter to Jeff Buckley about my dad. I have a picture of him taped next to my bed, and he just kind of stares at me. It's creepy. The second is a bunch of rambling having to do with my lack of love for my body and my eating problems, and my cycle of constant change and fear that I'll revolt back to my old ways...coupled with the connection I feel to this one lady whose website I visit religiously. She's a 310-lb. mother and wife.

#1

Jeff, don't stare at me and make me cry. Fuck you for not cloning yourself before you died. I don't know how to talk to angels. Can't you give your spirit to my future husband?

I wonder if you drink wine with my dad. I wonder if he still listens to saxophone players and eats pies without his hands. I wonder if there's hunger in Heaven. I'm so hungry all the time. I'm never full, even if I'm about to puke from stuffing myself. You fill me.

I wonder if angels have lips for kissing. Maybe you could borrow some for a day. I think that kissing you would be like 24/7 chocolate.

Will you become best friends with my daddy? Will you 2 fight over who gets to talk to me if I make it to Heaven one day? Will you convince him that it's okay that I fancy girls on occasion? I'm sure he already knows it's okay. Will you tell him to shake feeling into my numb mother? And shake me a bit, too? Will you ask him why her cancer was cured and his wasn't, when he wanted so badly to live and she just as badly wants to die?

I'm sorry Jeff. I'm being selfish. I still want to talk to you for days and let you sip my favorite echinacea tea instead of your wine. My tea's better for you. Sleep with me tonight.

And #2

I have a soft armour all over my body
made of anger.
My stomach cries and chokes,
cries and chokes.
I cough
and I cough
and I double over and hope no one sees
or tries to touch me.
I project the liquid fire
alive in my gut
onto everyone,
thinking they'll burn themselves when they taste
me,
knowing I'll be scorched then,
doomed forever when they turn away,
gagging over me.

A woman is like me
but with a husband and children.
Sometimes I feel her holding my hand,
though we've never met.
I don't think she would gag
over me.

She'd eat me up like chocolate cake.
And never get fat.

I'll be the cheap punching bag she desires.
She'll find my Achilles' heel
and pluck it 'til I squirm
and press my knees together.
Then she'll turn away,
back to her hubby,
back to her rugrats.
I'll wear my dusty rosary like a
necklace
and eat chocolate cake
and wonder if my kindergarten
friend Ashley ever learned to spell.
I always was smarter
than her.

Okay that's all. Wow, I was all cheery before, and now I'm writing that garbage. I'm still cheery though, and I was surprisingly cheery when I wrote it. Hmm. Wow, I don't feel entirely comfortable putting this stuff up on my website, so I'll save it before I chicken out.

Anyway, I need food. Wow, I can't wait until Christmas. I've been in the Christmas spirit lately. Until next time.